


je t'embrasse

by portraitofire



Category: Portrait de la jeune fille en feu | Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019)
Genre: 18th Century, Childbirth, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Falling In Love, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Love Letters, Motherhood, Short Chapters, alternate universe - everything is wonderful, i was born to write gushy lesbian love letters, poetic ramblings, slowburn but not really, vita & virginia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:50:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29913057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofire/pseuds/portraitofire
Summary: 5 years after their windswept love affair in Brittany, Marianne sends Héloïse a letter. What follows is a bittersweet correspondence as the two women learn how to translate their love into the written word whilst navigating waters of grief, motherhood and desire.
Relationships: Héloïse & Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire), Héloïse/Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 36





	1. 5 years later.

**Author's Note:**

> "je t'embrasse" can be literally translated as "i kiss you" but in this sense, it means "big kiss" or "with love" as an affectionate way of concluding a letter to a loved one.
> 
> additionally, i made a rough estimate (& ran with it) that it would take ~6 weeks for a letter to be sent from paris to milan and vice versa so that is roughly the amount of time that passes between their letters.

_Paris 14th June, 1769_

_Dear Héloïse,_

_I sincerely hope you will pardon me if this comes as an unpleasant shock. I am entirely understanding if you have no desire to reconnect._

_Last week, I met with a friend of your mother’s in Paris to discuss painting a portrait for her. I was frightened to ask of you but she gave me your address all too eagerly. I had placed it aside with no intention of writing to you but I have found that it’s impossible not to._

_I hope you are well. I hope you are enjoying Milan and the company it presents. I hope he is agreeable. I hope, I hope, I hope._

_Don’t feel as though you must reply, I understand. This is enough._

_Marianne_

**_* * *_ **

_Paris 7th August, 1769_

_Dear Héloïse,_

_I recall writing that it was enough simply to send my fond regards, but oh, I was deeply wrong. I have thought of you frequently._

_Please, if you are able, respond. You do not know how I would care to hear about every moment that has passed since. I do not enjoy being reduced to a beggar’s plea. But for you, I will. Please._

_Marianne_

**_* * *_ **

_Paris 19th September, 1769_

_Dear Héloïse,_

_I retract everything I said in my last letter. That will be all._

_Marianne_


	2. Chapter 2

_Milan 31st October, 1775_

_Dear Marianne,_

_You may imagine my surprise, I am sure, at returning home from a seaside holiday to three letters. I could barely make out the words in my haste. I am sorry for what was surely some confusion. Would I have received the letters earlier, I would have replied and no ill feelings would have resulted._

_It has been a pleasurable summer but I fell ill for the last week of our trip and it had to be cut short as a result. My stomach has been increasingly more nauseous these days. I’ve no idea what is the matter and neither does Abramo. That is my husband. He has been quite delicate with me since I’ve fallen ill, as though I’ll shatter into a million pieces if I emit one cough. You know how frustrating that is for me to endure. Nevertheless, he’s a good husband. I am immensely fortunate. I am not one of those women who whisper about the mistreatment behind her husband’s back. I do not have to. He treats me gently (if not more than I would like!). I should like to tell him one day that I’m not a porcelain teacup and he ought to behave accordingly._

_Do I write too formally? I don’t know how to communicate with you anymore. It’s all so strange. I’m uncertain about this, Marianne. Is it prudent to begin something afresh? What is ‘something’? I daren’t question it. Nevertheless, I’ll be cordial. Please tell me how you are, I should like to hear about everything!_

_Héloïse_

_P.S. Don’t be fooled. I’m very angry with you. But my pleasure at hearing from you outweighs any other emotion I could feel! Please write back soon._

**_* * *_ **

_Paris 12th December, 1775_

_Dear Héloïse,_

_I am delighted to hear from you and hear that all is well, for the most part. Inform me whether or not you are still ill. Diseases are terribly rampant these days and I would like to be assured of your health. If nothing has helped, I suggest buckthorn syrup; it has worked marvels on me years past._

_The days are getting shorter here, and colder too. There’s less daylight with which to paint. That said, next time you write I ask that it be sent to Rue de la Pêcherie in Brussels. I will be staying there temporarily with a family as I paint a woman’s portrait._

_In response to what ‘something’ is, I say: nothing. It needn’t be anything. There’s no harm in corresponding one with another, let’s simply write letters. That’s all there ever need be. I am satisfied. Are you?_

_Pardon my ignorance but why are you angry? I have missed your spite._

_Marianne_


	3. Chapter 3

_Milan 23rd January, 1776_

_Dear Marianne,_

_What is true satisfaction? I dare say I have never experienced it._

_As for why I’m angry, I will be curt. I would rather not spend the larger portion of this letter dwelling on my displeasures._

_When I wake, I kneel beside my bedside and pray together with my husband. When that is resolved, we eat breakfast together, then stroll through the city. I manage the servants and I visit the neighbour, promising to send plums when our fruit trees ripen in spring. I tend to the gardens. I embroider. I go to church. Sometimes I read a book. Sometimes I even feel content._

_What I’m meaning to say is that I am unsure where to fit you anymore. My life has changed since we last met. It has different rules I must follow. I have learned in the past five years which lines I must not cross in order to live an agreeable life, and to be sure, it can be agreeable indeed if I simply look in the right places. It is uncomplicated. And you, Marianne, are anything but. I am angry that you’ve placed me in this position. I want to send back every one of your letters without opening them but m̶y̶ ̶h̶e̶a̶r̶t̶ my hands betray me. I want to tear each letter up into little pieces so I will never be tempted to think of your face again, and yet I read each word as though it is the last I will ever hear from you. You have made me greedy, Marianne, when I was beginning to accept my lot, and_ that _is why I am angry._

_I will allow those words to settle. Perhaps we can continue this train of conversation another time, but I would instead like to dwell on the pleasantries of the season._

_Christmas was wonderful. The house smelled like warm cake from the moment I awoke. The rooms were draped with holly, ivy and mistletoe. I would have loved to show you how beautiful it all looked. Alas, it is now January, the coldest month of the year and I frequently find myself missing the warm and glossy glow of Christmas evenings by the fire. We invited our friends and they stayed for weeks. I dearly miss their cheer. My mother is visiting and she is near glowing when she sees my husband and I walking together side by side. She loves Milan more than any city in the world. I think I would prefer Paris._

_I have enclosed a small Christmas gift for you. It is already weeks past Christmas as I write this but I say to hell with it! It is a bough of holly from our parlour. It smells just like the house used to during the peak of the season._

_How is Brussels and how is the portrait? I imagine that no painting will quite come close to the beauty of mine (all your doing)._

_Héloïse_

_P.S. It might be of interest to you to know that I am with child._

  
  


**_* * *_ **

_Paris 6th March, 1776_

_Dear Héloïse,_

_I received your letter just days before I parted Brussels. What_ _lucky_ _timing._

_How could you have told me so offhandedly! Héloïse is with child. I find myself repeating those words over and over to myself, unable to believe it. I imagine by the time you receive this, your stomach will be as full as a watermelon! I so would like to see you, sweating and pudgy. I simply can’t imagine it. You, never. You move about the world with such grace. How wonderful, Héloïse. I hope you are happy. How do you feel?_

_Finally, spring is coming and I see its greeting caresses all around me. Flowers are blooming everywhere you look, even in the cracks of the street. The air smells a little sweeter. It has begun to rain more often and I love it._

_Elias did not love it quite as much. He’s the youngest child of the family I stayed with in Brussels and he has the longest blond hair I’ve ever seen. He looks like a little girl and his sisters often tell him so. The rain would stop him from playing outside and he became very irritable when kept indoors. I let him watch me paint and for a short while, he was thoroughly engrossed. He asked me how I would mix paint; how I knew what colours they would create when combined. I told him I had many years of experience and he looked at me squarely and said, “Are you old?” I wanted to laugh, he’s delightful._

_In response to your remarks about being angry: I will stop writing in an instant if that is what you would like. But I know that we both cannot bid farewell now. We have begun and it is out of our control. Do tell me, though, whether you ever change your mind in which case you will never hear from me again. My heart leaps when I remember who I am writing to. I cannot say that it would not be a great torture if you were to demand we never speak again. In the words of English playwright Christopher Marlowe,_

“Think'st thou that I, who saw the face of God

And tasted the eternal joys of heaven,

Am not tormented with ten thousand hells

In being deprived of everlasting bliss?”

_Now that I have tasted bliss, I’m afraid I’m quite done for._

_Do you, too, find yourself second-guessing every time you write the year as 1776? What a_ _monumental change it is, the changing of the year. Everything feels transformed and reborn. All is possible under this new year._

_With that, I end this letter._

_Keep well,_

_Marianne_


	4. Chapter 4

_Milan 17th April, 1776_

_Dear Marianne,_

_I feel as though I’m an air balloon, ready to drift into the sky with only my legs tethering_ _me to the ground. I have swollen beyond belief; you would be shocked if you caught sight of me. It is a loathful thing being unable to look down and see your own two slippered feet. To be quite frank, I have grown rather irritable over the past weeks and my husband is sore with me because of it. I do not care! He is not carrying a being within his abdomen like its own personal horsedrawn carriage._

_In fact, my entire existence has now become centered on the object that takes residence inside of me. He asks of nothing else. Does it feel alright? Is it healthy? How am I to know these things? I feel diminished, a sheaf of paper torn from a book, as if I have lost all other meaning and context within my life and I am now only the present page._

_All the same, Marianne, I feel wondrous. There is a_ child _inside of me and all it has is me! It’s a wonderful thing to be needed. To know that there is human life collecting itself more and more with every day, preparing itself to meet the sun - and meet me!_

_I am afraid, too. Everywhere I turn, I hear the whispers of the women who did not survive. They haunt me. I don’t want to join their midst. I am creating a sizeable risk, an endangerment; one that I cannot escape from now. On occasion, I think of Sophie and I begin to wonder whether I might have taken that path if I had no husband doting on my every move. I could never tell him this. I am beginning to wonder if this child’s life within me has already become more important to him than my own._

_Nevertheless, when I feel my soul becoming heavy, I think of you and all is lightened! What did you tell the little boy, Elias? Are you old? Are you afraid of age? I am. I see new freckles on my hands, new creases on my thighs. It all scares me more than I would like to admit. Your letters are a comfort. You are right to say that we could never say goodbye now that we have begun. We are entrapped._

_My last question, if I dare to ask it, is whether that is really so … dreadfully bad?_

_With fond regards,_

_Héloïse_

  
  
*** * ***

_Paris 29th May, 1776_

_Dear Héloïse,_

_There is a marvelous thing occurring in Paris. The women of the painting world are_ _gaining more serious attention and professional success than I have ever seen before. It is delightful, you should see it. The joy mingled on our faces when we meet in parlours and in the street — it is contagious. We embrace each other, triumph in our collective achievements and by the time we part, we are doubly merrier than before we met. I am one of those who has been most fortunate to benefit from this explosion of progressive ideals. The men I paint thank me before I leave and I see the respect on their faces. That was not always there. I have never had so many commissions — and from the highest aristocrats in France! I've spotted a painting of mine in the most esteemed salons and academies. My heart leaps in my throat. I do not say this with the intention of boasting. I simply wanted to share with you my joy, as your joy is mine and your sorrows are mine, too. Soon I hope that I will no longer have to display my art under my father's name, but that time has not yet come._

_Soon, it will be a year since I sent my first letter and we began to correspond. How quickly time flies, and how little I feel I have really heard from you! I still long to know every detail of your thoughts, every minute that passes under your watch. It has been six years since we last gazed upon each other’s eyes but you have not fully left me. I hold you in my thoughts._

_Am I too bold?_

_I think often of Sophie, too, and her courage. She had so much fight in her, and I cannot fully express my admiration of that. I wish I had told her._

_Have you yet read the love letters of Abelard and Héloïse? They met in 1120 when Abelard was hired to be Héloïse’s tutor and they fell deeply in love. As a result of their affair, Héloïse became pregnant. After the child was born, she was forced to enter a convent whilst Abelard was exiled to Brittany where he lived as a monk. During this period, they exchanged impassioned love letters that have since become famous. It all began when Abelard wrote to a friend with his version of their love story and it fell into her hands instead. She discovered that he was still suffering, as was she. She wrote to him with passion, anger and despair. I have included several passages that cause my heart to throb. Their pain is too alike to my own._

_“_ These mournful but dear remembrances, puts my spirits into such a violent motion, … the representation of our sufferings and revolutions. What reflections did I not make, I began to consider the whole afresh, and perceived myself pressed with the same weight of grief as when we first began to be miserable. Tho' length of time ought to have closed up my wounds, yet the seeing them described by your hand was sufficient to make them all open and bleed afresh.”

“If there is anything that may properly be called happiness here below, I am persuaded it is the union of two persons who love each other with perfect liberty, who are united by a secret inclination, and satisfied with each other's merits. Their hearts are full and leave no vacancy for any other passion; they enjoy perpetual tranquillity because they enjoy content.”

“If a picture, which is but a mute representation of an object, can give such pleasure, what cannot letters inspire? They have souls; they can speak; they have in them all that force which expresses the transports of the heart; they have all the fire of our passions, they can raise them as much as if the persons themselves were present; they have all the tenderness and the delicacy of speech, and sometimes even a boldness of expression beyond it.”

_It is the painter’s instinct in me not to betray painting by referring to letters as the ultimate form of connection and communication but they were right._

_And, last, I leave you with this:_

"Love is incapable of being concealed; a word, a look, nay, silence, speaks it."

_In silence,_

_Marianne_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: to learn more about Abelard and Héloïse, you can read here:  
> https://mlpp.pressbooks.pub/introphil/chapter/excerpts-from-the-letters-of-abelard-and-heloise/


	5. Chapter 5

_ Milan 10th July, 1776 _

_ Dear Marianne, _

_ I must tell you of the startling occurrence of two weeks ago. These days, I am often holed up within the house and the grounds - my pregnancy brings me far too much attention when I go about in public. On this particular day, I had been feeling increasingly nauseous and longed for the cold, harsh winds of Brittany. I felt as though they would clear every toxic sensation from my body. Nevertheless, I thought the Milanese breeze would do well enough and I took the trip into the city accompanied by my husband. _

_ I was right to assume that I would be given an extraordinary amount of unwanted attention, just as I was also right to assume that the fresh air would settle my queasiness. I had joined a group of women speaking conversationally outside of a shop when I heard one of them mention your name. It was as though I’d been struck by a bolt of electricity. When my husband questioned my sudden start, I blamed it on a stomach pain. For a brilliant second in time, I heard your name spoken again and all was well. I began to chat with the woman in question and she revealed that she knew your father and had known you for a short period as a child! I was delighted. At times, the world feels miniscule, and we are all simple particles spinning and colliding in total and complete chaos. Everything is connected in some way or another. _

_ Motherhood has continued to frighten and enthrall me. It alarms me. It intoxicates me. I am heady with the knowledge that I will soon possess a physical child, created entirely by my body’s resources. I will be direct and say I hope the child is a girl. There is a power I can sense already; and I want it to be her. All the same, I am unsure whether I am qualified to nurture and rear a child. It is a mysterious, bewitching thing. I am scared, Marianne. _

_ Is bookbinding not the most delightful profession? I have begun to read more and more these days with such an excessive amount of time, and I have fallen enamored with books. To assemble the heavy pages, sewing them with precision and diligence, does that not triumph the medical doctor? It is so intimate. The leather binding, the caricatures on the spine, each detail carefully placed by a methodical, warm hand. The dyed covers, marble sides, vellum spine. I adore it all. _

_ Those excerpts you’ve included are beautiful. Have you heard of Sappho? Many of her work have vanished due to time, but it is largely contested that she loved women. I believe we both may identify with the words, _

“I have not had one word from her

Frankly I wish I were dead

When she left, she wept

a great deal; she said to me, "This parting must be

endured, Sappho. I go unwillingly."

I said, "Go, and be happy

but remember (you know

well) whom you leave shackled by love.”

_  
  
_

_ I have stored your letters in a little box beside my bed and I reread each of them by light of a candle before I sleep at night. It is in those quiet moments of seclusion and mystery, shadows and pulses, that I feel the stirring of something within me. I have not yet identified whether it is the child moving within me or something else. Perhaps that doesn’t matter in the end and it is the feeling itself that is of importance. What do you think? _

_ My husband has begun to question who is this faroff woman I am writing to. I have told him that you are an old friend.  _

_ I hope you are well.  _

_ Héloïse _ _  
_

*** * ***

_ Varese 21st August, 1776 _

_ Dear Héloïse,  _

_ Surprise! I am writing to you from a coach as I journey into Varese. I received your letter shortly before I left for the long, arduous journey. Once I arrive, I will be living in Varese for three weeks so that I may paint a complex portrait for a famous composer who lives there. I have felt such excitement that we will be so close but decided to keep it to myself so that I may surprise you! Our letters will no longer take six weeks to arrive; I have heard that the distance between Varese and Milan is so fine that it would take less than five hours for our letters to be exchanged, which will make correspondence much more rapid. My heartbeat has quickened at the thought of hearing from you within the same day that I write to you!  _

_ I have already begun to wonder, if the sun shines here, does it do the same for Héloïse? Does she feel the same sensation on her skin as I do now? The prospect is dizzying. How surreal it is that we are so close. The distance could be bridged within a day and in a matter of hours, I could see your pleasant complexion again. I must stray from this particular topic or my cheeks will heat to a ruby red and the coach driver may make approximations of the vexing content of which I am writing. _

_ I estimate that your delivery will take place within the course of the next few weeks. Do tell me how you are feeling, is all well? Is motherhood still a terrifying concept? Take my sincerity: there are no qualifications that you lack, no prowess or ability you are unskilled in, no inkling of information that you have missed. You will be a loving, fully capable mother, and I have no reason so as to even remotely doubt otherwise. You would be wise to take my word for it.  _

_ I expect that I will love Varese dearly but my heart already pangs for Paris; it is unfortunate that I am leaving it when summer has arrived and given it so much needed warmth. The grass is swollen, and the streets are drowned in sunshine. There is an eternal sound of music playing, primarily the use of trumpets. Wherever you walk, you can detect the watered down lilt of constant song. The world smells like magnolias and honeysuckle. The clouds are like pastries, lazy in their motions and perfectly respectable for it. The breeze is another matter altogether, quintessential in its whisper and rustle across bare skin. _

_ Do you tire of these nonconsequential tidbits of information? Inform me at once and I will revert to topics of importance but there is so much delight in appreciating the molecules of life, the small and charming bits and pieces that compose the everyday. _

_ Be that as it may, I digress. _

_ I have enclosed several rudimentary sketches of you. They are, not so much manifestations of skill or ability, but memory. Their artistry means nothing to me, it is the resemblance that I crave to master. I long to create an image of you that captures the true essence of your living, breathing flesh. The face that laughs and scorns and cries. Forgive me if I am trespassing unmarked territory; I know that we have placed well guarded barriers around the fine details of our relationship but I have decided to infringe upon the borders of this contact. I have loved you for too long, and too much, to pretend as though I am content with simply being an old friend. _

_ There is a certain memory I must reveal to you. For years, I have been followed by a vision of you. You stand in your wedding dress, an ethereal, heavenly depiction of yourself. The edges are blurred as though you are slowly being erased off of an easel, but you have never faded, after all this time. _

_ I am unsure how you will react to these uncontrolled and untempered objects of my thoughts, the restless notions of a woman who has longed to forget, yet never has. I pray that you take every word with the grounded sincerity I have written them in.  _

_ I hold you in my thoughts. _

_ Most sincerely, _

_ Marianne _

*** * ***

_ Milan 22nd August, 1776 _

_ Marianne, _

_ The baby was born yesterday. It is a glorious girl. Her name will be  _ _ Joséphine, after my sister.  _ _ I have become feverish and suffer from severe abdominal pain and the doctor believes it may be caused by an infection. I will write when I can. _

_ Héloïse  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death and disease caused by childbirth were a commonplace of early modern life. In this situation, Héloïse is suffering from puerperal fever, whose fatality rate was high—70 to 80 per cent. Once a woman contracted it, all recognized that she was likely to die. (more info here: https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC1088248/)


	6. Chapter 6

_ Varese 22nd August, 1776  _

_ Dear Héloïse, _

_ I am appalled at my own insensitivity. How cruel of me! That you, whilst in the wells of affliction and sickness, were subjected to my careless rambles. I am mortified, but more than that, distressed with caring. What has the doctor said, in his exact words, if you may recall them? Are you being doted on as you should?? With every passing minute, I become full of more worry, and my body has been tense and coiled for hours. The only thing that could release me from this tension is thine own word with assurances of your well-being. Only respond if you feel able. _

_ Marianne _

*** * ***

__  
  


_ Milan 25th August, 1776 _

_ Dear Marianne, _

_ I apologize for the delay in responding. I have been quite frail. The doctor has not informed me of how serious the infection is but I have been unable to depart from my bed since the pregnancy, moving in and out of consciousness. It is as though only a thin veil separates me from sleep and I am constantly moving back and forth across it.  _

_ When my husband saw me, he asked immediately if the baby is well (she is). It brings me a morsel of joy to know that there is at least one whose first thought is not the child, but me. Is that selfish? _

_ It has waxed all of my energy in order to respond thus far. I owe you a debt of gratitude for your concern. _

_ Héloïse  _

*** * ***

_ Varese 26th August, 1776 _

_ Dear Héloïse, _

_ I should like to meet this doctor and shake his shoulders and reprimand him for not having offered any awareness of the extent of your sufferings. It exhausts me to worry so but I am unable to think of anything else. It is tormenting being unable to bridge the distance and hold you in my arms as I should like to and touch your brow. I feel if I were to shout loud enough, you would be able to hear. And though that clearly is not a reality, it softens the blow, imagining.  _

_ I crave the sound of your voice like a man does with his drink. I am unable to restrain myself, to hold myself back from this precipice any longer. I must declare each thought in length for I fear our time may be cut short. My beloved, I long for you. The yearning I feel is powerful enough to cause me tears. At times, it is your hands I miss the most. Their angle, the strong bones beneath the surface, the curve of your fingernails. Other times, it is your neck I dream of. And, on soft, dreamless summer nights when all is still and my thoughts roam to those evenings long past on the coast - it is your lips. _

_ Please get better. I will be unable to exist without you. _

_ Marianne _

*** * ***

_ Milan 30th August, 1776 _

_ Dear Marianne, _

_ I laughed when I began to read your letter, and then I cried. My heart is deeply stirred. I promise that I will recover. You may remember: I am not a porcelain teacup. _

_ I am in great agony most of the time. My lower abdomen pounds with pain and I have been described to be as pale as a white lily. My husband has sent for my mother and she will be traveling to Milan soon so that she may be with me. It is a great comfort to know that I will see her face soon. _

_ I apologize but I can’t write for long. My head is throbbing and I have chills, I can barely form thoughts, nevertheless write them down. It has taken me three days to write thus far. _

_ The shades have been permanently drawn down and the room smells sickly and wet. I can’t stand it, I miss the breeze. Please tell me about your painting. I want to think about colour and canvas and you. _

_ Héloïse _

*** * ***

_ Varese 2nd September, 1776 _

_ Dear Héloïse, _

_ I understand completely. To think of you locked in that dreadful, dreary room with no breeze to stir the drapes and no scent but your own! I will endeavor to describe in rich detail every vibrant shade and feature of this portrait. _

_ Allow me to describe the composer for you. He wears a perpetually powdered wig, and looks ridiculous for it. He has wonky hips that cause him to walk as though one leg is longer than the other. And most of all, he is in love with only one mistress: his violin. He adores her with a veneration and reverence that transforms him. It is as though his features reflect the face of God when he looks upon her. He is posing with the violin for his portrait and I have found it a most enjoyable task to paint. His fingers curl tenderly around her neck, tickling the strings like whispers. She is a sinewy, lush creature - made of finely-grained spruce and tightly flamed maple. The wood is varnished into a deep, royal polish so that the texture is visibly seen, not felt. It is held in his lap, not like an enfant, but a lover.  _

_ The man himself is less interesting in several regards but complex in their depiction. His neck bulges from his chin, like the flabs of a sea creature and his face is pudgy, layered and creased with age’s conveniences. The apex of his nose is rather square-like and almost droops down a little. However, there is something delightful in his eyes. The hairs of my paintbrush have yet to accurately capture them. They gaze leftwards, and are thoughtful in their demeanor. Not simply as thoughtful as a man considering some extraneous concept but rather, an external, spiritual force. There is unquestionably a feature to them that I wish I possessed myself.  _

_ The colours themselves are in moderation but shine just the same. The violin is a cacophony of warm shades of brown: chestnut, oak, almond. His face is tawny in its complexion, with a flush of seashell pink bridging his nose and his cheeks. His eyes, as I have mentioned already, are a dark olive green, although distinguishable only by careful scrutiny. His lips match the colour of a peach’s skin basking in the morning sun. _

_ I must cut myself short so I don’t continue until the end of time. I hope reading does not cause your head to hurt too much. Please update me on your health, I will not be at ease until I am assured you are entirely yourself again, however many weeks that may take.  _

_ Very truly yours, _

_ Marianne  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marianne’s description of the portrait was inspired by this painting: https://www.anticstore.art/81970P.


	7. Chapter 7

_ Milan 4th September, 1776 _

_ Dear Marianne, _

_ Darling, I am so pleased. Your descriptions were beautiful and my soul soared as I read them and envisioned your painting: the strokes, each bristle coated in paint, the texture of wet paint across a tight canvas. I miss the sound.  _

_ I am aware that I have left much unsaid. Your letters have been full of meaning and beauty and I wish I could reciprocate them but everything is dampened and shaded with the gloom and misery that illness brings with it. When I am better, I will settle my feelings into an according order and arrange them into a letter that explains all. For now, I have little energy to dwell on the  _ why  _ or  _ how  _ of my emotions; simply that they are. For instance, that I love  _ _ Joséphine  _ _ requires no thought, it is a sensation, a burning in my bosom. It has been 14 days since her birth. Despite my sickness, I have not regretted for a second having birthed her. She is the most precious. Her hair is pale and dusty gold, like mine. She regards the world with such lucidity as if she is collecting opinions and making judgments on its quality. Her tiny, curled fists lie by her sides and I am reminded of a champion, and of myself. She carries so much power and strength, and so much grace. _

_I have not told my husband that her name once belonged to my sister but my mother shall arrive within a day or two and I pray that she doesn’t make a remark. I am not ready to discuss it with him. He is a man, and will misunderstand. He is too cold to see it for what it is._

_ I am healing. I am not near being well enough to walk about freely or formulate long letters (quite yet) but for the first time, I have been stable enough to part from my bed and sit outdoors. I dearly miss the ability to run. _

_ I have a final comment before I end this letter (as my wrist is already becoming fatigued). When I first fell ill and I was in a constant state of near deliriousness, my thoughts were often with you. The contents of your last letter drowsed through my mind and I believed that I saw you. It happened on several occasions. I thought I saw you more than once, standing in the doorway to my bedroom, your hip leaning against the doorframe and your eyes boring into me. That imagery will stay with me forever. _

_ I did not expect to write this much and yet, I am feeling substantially better than before I began. Perhaps it is the sole thought of who I am writing to that is keeping my pulse going. _

_ With ardent affection, _

_ Héloïse _

_ P.S. I have kept the sketches you created of me under my pillow. They are breathtaking. _

*** * ***

_ Varese 5th September, 1776 _

_ Dear Héloïse, _

_ To think that I almost had lost you. It is something I will never allow myself to take for granted again. Your presence, even if only through letters, gives me an inexpressible amount of happiness. I would find life to be so meaningless without you. _

_ Take your time, my sweet. What is left unsaid does not bother me as I know all will be explored in due time. There is no haste.  _

_ I know that Joséphine will shape up to be like her mother. Do you think of your sister often? I have no siblings and as a result, have no experiences to compare with. Were you close? _

_ I only have a week left before I will return to Paris and our communication will be as normal, with long pauses between each letter. I will be unable to stand it, and yet I must. I hope that seeing your mother will be rejuvenating. It is sunny this afternoon in Varese and I hope it is the same in Milan and you have the opportunity of experiencing it. I lay in the grass behind the house and watched the sky thinking of how summer is departing. I have enjoyed it but I shall not miss it. I am heavy with excitement for winter. The portrait is almost done. _

_ Again, I pray that you are recovering rapidly. I send my love. _

_ With affection,  _

_ Marianne _


	8. Chapter 8

_Milan 6th September, 1776_

_Dear Marianne,_

_My mother arrived today. With her presence came the immediate feeling that all would be well and I no longer have any reason to fear. We lay for an hour with my head placed in her lap like when I was a child. It is as though I have reverted back to my childhood self when I am sick and vulnerable around her; her presence is so stoic and nurturing that my defenses crumble like chalk._

_In response to your questions about José: no and yes. Grief has a spellbinding quality to it that it erases time. I will go months without thinking of her, and then some odd object or character will remind me of her and she will be all that I think about for weeks at a time. The pain ebbs and flows in a similar manner, it does not abide by any rational explanations. Sometimes it as though my chest is about to split apart with sadness, and other times I laugh when I think of her. We were best friends, Marianne. There is a space that she has left behind that no other person will be able to fill. I have not written so explicitly about her passing before. But you, I trust completely. I know these words are secure with you._

_My mother met Joséphine today. There was a connection between them that is hard to put into words. My baby girl’s fingers curled around my mother’s thumb and there was a shared look, an exhale, and I knew with every surety that they will form the most wonderful of relationships. It brings me to tears, thinking of my Joséphine. My mother and I cried together. We felt it together. Everything has changed._

_I am now able to walk freely (although feebly) and it has been the greatest pleasure to stroll across the grounds, hand in hand with my mother and recount stories from long past. I briefly recounted to her that you and I had begun corresponding and I saw a flash of something in her eyes that alarmed me. Sometimes I question whether she knew more than we believed, but it could very well have been a trick of my fatigued mind._

_It pains me to know that soon you will be so far again. Please tell me which date precisely you will be leaving. I would like to send you something before you go (and I assure you, it will not be quite so horrendous of a gift as a bough of holly)._

_Most lovingly,_

_Héloïse_

*** * ***

_Varese 7th September, 1776_

_Dear Héloïse,_

_I cannot express to you what a pleasure the past few weeks have been for me here in Varese (apart from the crushing worry of your health). It is a beautiful hillside city with a stunning view of the alps as it’s positioned close to Switzerland. It is small enough to explore its entirety on foot and in the time I have spent not painting, I have done my best to examine its every corner. I will present you with the facts I have accumulated thus far._

_a) It is rich in castles and palaces, but I have yet to catch sight of a royal (or anyone who looks as though they would reside in a palace)._

_b) There are various gardens and public parks with well manicured bushes and flowerbeds. Even as summer’s warmth leaves us, they are in a permanent state of sunshine and beauty._

_c) It is a very religious city. There is a beautiful mountain called Sacro Monte di Varese. It is composed of cobbled paths and elaborate chapels along the journey up. It is said to be very holy and many citizens escape there to worship and pray in the sanctuary. I admire their dedication and passion._

_What are your views on religion? I find myself unable to deny that it has a remarkable effect on those who practice it but it often sways between negative and positive. As for me, I believe there is a stark difference between religion and spirituality. I would consider myself spiritual but not religious. Does that make sense? I will not (can not) presume that I have any inkling of the universe’s higher realms and orders, therefore I will not adhere to any such “gospel” that proclaims its verity. We have no awareness of these things, so why pretend otherwise? I prefer to believe in that which is clear unto me: art, nature and love._

_I will be returning to Paris early morning on the 10th of September._

_All my heart,_

_Marianne_


	9. Chapter 9

_ Milan 9th September, 1776 _

_ Dear Marianne, _

_ Tomorrow you leave me. It is odd - you have not truly been with me, and yet I feel as though your departure is creating a physical absence. As though some part of my body, an arm, a limb, my torso, is leaving with you and I will be entirely incomplete.  _

_ In terms of God, I am unsure. You remember, I had spent many months at a convent before we met, where my life was devoted to Him. Even now, I find small moments within my days where my head instinctively bows and I pray to Him. But neither is it simply a gesture or a default; it holds meaning to me. I cannot say that I believe in His existence with a full heart, yet I do not ardently deny Him either. He has provided solace in my life, even if that be only fiction. Yes, when I lived at the convent, my life was organized around obedience, chastity and purity. I strongly believe in none of those. But I believe that sometimes, we must diminish our own egotistical behaviors so that we may accept another’s will, and is that not what God is about? Allow me to put it simply: I do not believe, nor do I deny. His existence is inconsequential to me, it is the meaning behind worshipping Him that is of importance to me. _

_ Marianne, I tire of writing about God. Let this letter be one long, poetic labour of love for I have discovered deep within myself what is the core of my existence, and it is not religion, it is this: My beloved, that I adore you. _

_ You wrote to me, saying: “I know that we have placed well guarded barriers around the fine details of our relationship but I have decided to infringe upon the borders of this contact.” I say, take each barrier down! Let there be no blockage between our minds, let them become as one. I will be frank and admit that during my illness, there was a time where I was on the verge of death. I was too afraid to communicate this to you (and too frail). Yet, one thing became totally and unconditionally clear: There is not a single thing that could restrain me from loving you. It is strange, knowing that the best days of one’s life have already passed. You made those days what they were. I have not forgotten them, nor will I ever. _

_ I have sent this letter with a book of poetry. It is your gift. No longer will I be required to write long passages by hand, they are all held within it. I have marked my favourite pieces and written in the margins for you to enjoy my commentary. _

_ Though you will soon be parting, you are not far from me. _

_ Je t’embrasse, _

_ Héloïse _

__  
  


*** * ***

_ Varese 10th September, 1776  _

_ Dear Héloïse, _

_ I received your letter last evening and have only now felt composed enough to formulate a reply. I cried liberally as I read your words; they moved me beyond anything I have ever read. _

_ Do not mind the messy scrawl I am currently writing in, I do not have much time to send this off before I must depart. I must begin by saying I had serious doubt that you remembered. Of course, I knew that you remembered our days together, that is without question, but I had begun to feel as though you’d forgotten the feelings, that perhaps they had deteriorated with time. I wondered if you had forgotten how to love me. That maybe, when you said “I am unsure where to fit you anymore”, you meant, “I am unsure how to love you anymore”.  _

_ I am delighted to know that I was wrong. I am beyond speech, beyond thought, and beyond moving. My heart is yours. _

_ Love, _

_ Marianne _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gosh what a sappy bunch


	10. 3 years & 6 months later.

_ Paris 10th March, 1780 _

_ Dear Héloïse, _

_ My darling, how is your trip? I will not lie and say that I have not had much to drink tonight. I have drunk much! It is nearing one in the morning and I am sat in the street with parchment and ink in my hand.  _

_ I hope your holiday in Brittany is absolutely splendid. _

_ I’ve just had the most bizarre, enthralling experience. A woman approached me romantikally. I’d just excited a show and was waiting in the twilight for a friend when one of the dancers greeted me. I was friendly and complimented her on her performince. She was delightful to talk to and spoke of her experiences growing up as a young girl. She was fasinated when I told her I am a painter. She asked whether I would like to join her in getting something to eat. I told her that I was waiting for someone and she ushered me into a quiet street as though preparing to tell me a secret. There, she embraced me! I informed her that I was very much involved with someone else and she departed. _

_ I do wonder how she knew that I love women. For I do! I do, I do, I do. I have known for a very long time. Do you mind my being explicit? I am drunk and I fear that that opens my mouth (figuratively) to say more than I would usually. _

_ Dear, I hope you are enjoying yourself trumendously. I love you marvelously.  _

_ I must go now for I would really like to sleep. _

_ Kisses, _

_ Marianne _

*** * ***

_ Milan 19th April, 1780 _

Dear Marianne,

_ I laughed affectionately when I arrived home to your charming letters. They were a pleasure to read. I’ve missed you. _

_ I can’t say how much I loved visiting Brittany. The coast was a delicious wakeup from months of being trapped in Milanese spring with muggy rooms and damp sheets. I missed the cold, the wet, the salt in the air and the wind in my hair. I missed running. _

_ Mother enjoyed our time profusely. She spent hours and hours with little Jos _ _ é, playing in the sand and hiding in the tall grass. She is growing up so fast, my little one. Her vocabulary has expanded so much and she’s even begun to tell me little stories that she makes up on her walks. Each night, I read the story of Eurydice and Orpheus to her before she falls asleep. I have settled it with Abramo that she will receive paints for her fourth birthday and perhaps she’ll even grow to be a painter like our dear Marianne. _

_ With  _ _ Jos _ _ éphine playing with her grandmother so often, I found that I had the time to walk about the island on my own. At first, I simply ventured along the ocean, but finally found the courage to walk into town. I felt my soul remarkably stirred by the memories that returned to me along that short journey; I believed that I had remembered every instant of our time together but was surprised at how many new moments returned to me. Every moment played so vividly within my mind, I could practically taste your kisses on the breeze. It might be of interest to you to know that I visited the cave where we first kissed. I touched the stony walls, the sandy ground, and for a moment I thought I felt your breathing on the back of my neck. I was so immersed in the memory of it that I lost hold of the present. _

_ The undeniable highlight of my holiday was when I went bathing in the ocean. I did not wade in as I did so many years ago, rather I took a sudden and sharp plunge. The cold stole the breath from my lungs and for a terrifying moment, I couldn’t breathe. Then it shattered and I gasped for breath and my heart was racing, my bones frozen, and every millisecond was punctuated with the undeniable urge to throw my head back and scream with emotion. I felt so alive. I felt so free. I have not felt that way since our parting. _

_ I think of you every minute. _

_ The most tender of my affections,  _

_ Héloïse _

*** * ***

_ Paris 28th May, 1780 _

_ Dear Héloïse, _

_ I have rewritten this letter four times now. There is a concert coming up. A painting of mine will be displayed at the gallery beforehand and I should like to be there; it is in Milan. I think we should meet. _

_ Marianne _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi if you have read this far, bravo! pls know that a) i'm not a historian, this is probably full of inaccuracies and b) i'm a hopeless romantic so if this was too cheesy for you i'm sORRY. i went crazy. and i loved it. and c) i'll have you know that i wrote this in 4 days so don't take it too seriously this was a fun quick passion project that i enjoyed writing so so much, but it is not a masterpiece so if ur disappointed look away! k thank u.
> 
> (sidenote: i would love to write a prose ending of sorts chronicling their reunion, in other words: the ending of poalof but rewritten so they get their happy ending. lmk if anyone's interested in that! or if that's already been done, i'd love the link <3 farewell)!


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